The Jazzman

By Jim Pyra

Leah Murphy was a happy business woman with a good job, a loving father, and a future with the man that she loved. Then her world fell apart with betrayal, murder, violence and a mysterious stranger. A man old enough to be her father comes out of nowhere to save her life, like a knight in shining armor. He proves to be a man that she somehow can't resist.

Henri Patriquin is a man with his own code of honor and an extraordinary gift. Together with a strange collection of friends, he tries to help right the wrongs of the world. This time he finds himself falling for a woman far too young for him, who has become mixed up in a brutal situation.

As they try to solve the mystery of the Jazzman, without getting themselves killed, they both explore new territory. Henri takes Leah into situations that she never would have imagined. Leah reminds Henri what passion can be. Through it all, they both wrestle with issues of life, love, and age as they try and bring a killer to justice.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jim Pyra
• Release date: Apr 6, 2012
• ISBN: 9780987967114

Jim Pyra

Jim Pyra trys to write in various genres and takes a few good pictures from time to time. He writes a lot of non fiction and technical material in his day job and likes to experiment with narrative forms in his fiction.

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THE JAZZMAN

A Novel

By J. Pyra

Copyright 2012 Jim Pyra

Smashwords Edition

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

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For Mokbel – who made me travel to where I found the bistro

and

For Smed – who always inspires me

CHAPTER 1

The young woman was pretty and smartly dressed. She had an expensive red leather jacket over an elegant silk blouse. Her mini skirt had a slit in it that caught the eye of every man in the bistro as she shifted on the high barstool and sipped her martini. Almost every man, thought Henri with wry amusement as he glanced at the two stylish and dramatic young men animatedly commiserating over some professional affront that one of them had suffered. They were regulars and Henri called them ‘the Decorators’ because that was their business.

The guilty little thoughts of a middle aged man were an abstract hum in Henri’s mind competing with the conversations of the bistro as background noise. Henri had long since learned to dismiss such thoughts as innocent. The man’s guilt was born of fantasy and sneaking peeks at the lady on the barstool while feigning interest in his faded companion. Henri labeled him ‘Midlife Crisis’. His were not the kind of guilty thoughts that Henri heard loud and clear, the kind he had never learned to ignore.

Henri turned slightly to study the lady at the bar. She was young, but not a girl. Her clothing was too expensive for her to be a prostitute; besides, Emile would never allow that kind of girl into his establishment. She was not a regular though: Henri had never seen her before. She was drinking steadily, with an angry determination that indicated a resolute desire to escape from the world for a few hours. Henri felt a little sadness that such a beauty should be so angry and alone. He briefly thought about joining ‘Mademoiselle Martini’ at the bar, but he knew she would be suspicious and probably would mistake his friendliness for lechery. He could not blame her for that, old men like him were not supposed to chat up young ladies. He sighed and turned his attention to the merlot he was savoring.

Emile wandered over and sat down.

How’s the wine, Monsieur Patriquin? he asked wearily.

Excellent. Fetch yourself a glass, Monsieur Gola. Henri raised the bottle and waved it at him. He and Emile had shared many bottles of wine over the years.

No, no, you enjoy it. I am too tired. If I were to indulge tonight, I would probably nod off before I even swallowed it. Not bad for an Australian though, eh?

Henri turned the bottle to study the label. He was getting old, he had never even noticed that the wine was not French. His father would have shot him for such a failing. Not bad at all…for an Australian, he sniffed.

Emile smiled then bounded to the door to greet some new guests. A couple Henri had seen here before, who lived nearby and he therefore labeled ‘the Suburbanites’ and a man alone who went to the bar. The newcomer sat as far as possible from Martini. Henri watched him with some interest. His reaction to the lady was not the appreciation of most men, nor the disinterest of the Decorators. He was afraid of her. The way he glanced at her and then held the bar menu so tightly that it shook attracted Henri’s scrutiny.

Martini paid no attention to him whatsoever, but finished her drink and fumbled with her purse, drawing out a package of cigarettes. After a brief search for a lighter, she leaned over the bar to retrieve a book of matches. Her stretch across the bar caused Midlife Crisis to sigh as he stared at her bottom. Henri admired her shape himself; after all, he was a Frenchman, and then resumed studying the newcomer.

Emile was talking to him, taking an order for beer. The newcomer glanced nervously around the bar, especially at Martini. He watched her as one might watch a poisonous snake, with great caution and ready to jump to safety. Emile went to the bar to pour the nervous man a beer and the lady ordered another drink. ‘Nervous’ was a good label for him; he was very unsettled. Emile served Martini another round and took the beer to Nervous before heading into the back to fetch a bottle of wine for the Suburbanites.

A strong curiosity gripped Henri as he studied Nervous. The man nursed his beer, warily watching Martini as she blew smoke and dove into her new drink. Henri remembered a boy in Paris who had the same timid demeanor as Nervous. At school they said it was because his parents beat him and they called him ‘Target’. Once, Target had spat at a German soldier, getting a blow to the head for his boldness and a new respect from all his mates. When his parents found out, they beat him severely for being so stupid and Target always hid from the Germans after that. The point of this recollection was that the behavior Nervous exhibited was like that of Target. Of course, Target grew up to be bank robber and ultimately was gunned down in the middle of a robbery in Brussels. Violence begets violence, thought Henri.

Nervous was calming down. Henri found himself dreaming up theories about the man. He theorized that Nervous’ mother used to beat him (just like Target) and therefore he feared attractive, confident women. Martini still had not even looked at him, and Nervous was starting to relax a little bit. Henri recalled reading a psychiatrist’s book about killers and how they transferred anger towards abusive mothers and domineering spouses to their victims, who acted as substitute targets for their violence. Long experience in observing the behavior of murderers and an irrepressible self-confidence convinced Henri that Nervous was such a man, but without having heard any guilty thoughts, he could not be sure.

Emile had taken the Suburbanites’ orders, making a big fuss over them – an anniversary dinner perhaps. Returning from the kitchen, where Zoë slaved over the cooking, he rejoined Henri, this time with a glass. As he sat, he fought the urge to chuckle at the sight of his friend’s solid bulk sitting at the tiny bistro table. Henri was not a fat man, but a big man. In his younger days, he could have been a wrestler, or a football player. He still was in excellent shape and had less fat on his massive frame than Emile had on his own, smaller physique.

I thought you were too tired, said Henri as he poured Emile a glass of the merlot.

I am, Emile grinned, but I must keep up my reputation of being a disreputable Bohemian, eh?

Henri laughed with him and nodded towards Nervous. What do you think, my friend?

Emile glanced around, his eyes roving over Martini for a second before settling on Nervous. He is nervous.

Henri laughed at his nickname for the man being used and clinked his glass against Emile’s, startling him. Emile glanced back to Henri, puzzled by his extraordinary friend. They had met during the war, two boys in occupied Paris. Henri was respectable, Emile was on the run and hiding after having escaped from Nazis and losing his family somewhere in the flight. Henri used to bring him food and wine and the two boys would spend many long hours arguing about the fortunes of war. Emile was the first person to whom Henri confided his talents. They each thought the other was crazy. Their friendship lasted all these years and even through their migration to America after the war. Henri had been Emile’s best man when he married Zoë in 1953. The three of them came to America together in 1955 and Henri had even lived with them for a brief while, until he got established himself.

Emile never knew when Henri was going to tell him someone’s guilty secrets. He guessed that the knowledge that came to Henri was just too difficult to keep inside. The greater the guilt, the more passionate Henri would become and the more desperate for Emile to help him do something about it. Since the 1950s the two men had tried to bring various evildoers to justice. Sometimes their anonymous tips worked to get the police moving in the right direction and sometimes they did not. Henri seemed satisfied, however if they at least made an attempt.

Emile drank some wine and watched Henri watching Nervous. What does he hear from inside the man’s head? Emile wondered.

Henri heard no guilt, but he was convinced that Nervous was a criminal. A criminal without guilt – that made him either purely evil, or a madman. So, Monsieur Gola, what do you think? he asked his friend again.

Emile sipped his wine before answering: "He is not drunk, he’s frightened. The drink has loosened him up now. Maybe he is an escaped convict – what do you hear from him? You are the one ‘doué’, you know, ‘gifted’, eh?"

I hear nothing. But I know he is guilty.

It is unlike you to make judgements like that my friend. Perhaps you are mistaken, eh? Emile finished his glass and hustled to the kitchen, stopping to serve Martini a refill on the way by.

Nervous left money on the table for his beer and left the bar. Henri got up and put on his coat. He saluted Emile who was heading to the Suburbanites’ table with oysters. Emile rolled his eyes and said goodnight.

Henri walked slowly out of the bar, exaggerating his need for his cane. If Nervous was lurking outside, waiting for Martini, let him see nothing but a fragile old man. As he headed slowly down the street, he felt a pang of guilt from one of the surrounding tenements. He focused his thoughts and then realized the guilt was already washed away by pleasure. A young man neglecting to use a safe, he thought, recognizing the feelings from having heard such thoughts before. Hopefully, no one would die from such a guilty pleasure. These were such complicated times.

He had walked a few blocks when a killer’s guilt struck him then, as it always did, right between the eyes. He heard that flash of guilt like a cry for help from the killer’s soul. He turned toward the source and let his mind’s ear guide him. Back toward the bistro he went, and then into the small lot beside it. Then the guilty thoughts were suppressed by the evil of the man and Henri could not find him. There were few cars in the lot however, and he stole up to each of them and peeked inside. Beside the sporty car that was the most likely one to belong to Martini, he found Nervous. He was crouched down so she would not see him until she was at her door. He was holding a hypodermic and did not seem nervous any more.

Before the younger man had a chance to react, Henri struck him on top of his head with the cane and Nervous sprawled on the pavement. Just then, a taxi pulled up in front of the bistro and Emile emerged from the building. Henri waved vigorously at him and Emile jogged over to him.

My God, my friend, you have taken extreme action this time! You are alright, eh? Emile whispered once he surveyed the scene.

"Oui. I am fine. But Nervous, he attacked me with a needle," Henri pointed to the hypodermic with his cane.

Call the police! shouted Emile to the cabby. Then he helped his friend back to the bistro. Once Henri had been settled on the front steps, Emile, Henri and the cabby waited for the police, keeping an eye on Nervous. A few minutes later a squadcar arrived. Nervous was, apparently, dead. Emile took control of the situation and told the police what had happened. Addresses were noted, an ambulance was summoned, information was recorded and they reluctantly agreed with Emile that the respectable and mature Monsieur Patriquin did not really need to go downtown just for having discovered a dead junky in the parking lot. If there were any questions to be answered the detectives would contact him tomorrow.

The police and paramedics discreetly removed the remains and tidied up the scene. Emile returned to his patrons and the cabby